Page 211 of Bend
I swallow. “The slippers?” Of course the slippers. What else would he be talking about?
A surprised look crosses his face. “You’re Southern. From … Alabama?”
“Georgia.” I wince. I can’t hide the drawl; it drags through that one word with such ownership, as if the Southern notes are fused through every syllable.
He nods slowly, still holding out the slippers. His other hand moves, reaching across. “I’m Brett.”
I should stand. It’s the polite thing to do. Stand and shake his hand. But I don’t. I don’t think my feet can handle it. I just reach out, shake his hand with a firm grip, like my daddy taught me, and meet his eyes. “Riley.”
Bemused. I don’t know what about that exchange he found funny, but his mouth widened, and I got another devastating look at his teeth. God, I’d love for him to nibble my skin. Tease my neck, take the other, more sensitive parts of my body and wreak havoc on them. I shiver at the thought and pull my eyes from his. Take the slippers from his hands. “You carry around slippers?”
“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”
“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”
If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”
Having no intelligent response, I pretend to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they are on. “Where did you get these?”
He tilts his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”
I laugh. “No, I’m good.”
“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down … How far do you have to go?”
“My room.” I wave a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”
He frowns. “A bit of a hike.”
“It was.” I wiggle my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gesture to the seat next to me. Pull open my purse and dig through the chips there, seeing him, out of my peripheral, remain standing. Okay. I collect all of the green chips I can find. Six total. Sixty bucks worth. I close my purse and hold out the handful, watching Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urge.
He does, wincing when I drop the chips into his palm. He frowns, rolling them over in his palm and holding them out to me.
“They’re for the slippers.” I clasp the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I bat off his hand. “Take it.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I don’t want your charity. Please.”
“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness is entering his voice, and I fight the urge to smile.
“It’s giving me something for nothing … that’s charity.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”
I sniff in a manner that would, most certainly, make my mother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”
“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”
I sigh. A big dramatic one—one that gives no hint to the fact that I haven’t been laid in almost two years, haven’t been on a date in almost half that time, and have never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”
His mouth twitches. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”
“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumble, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware at the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress has risen. I work it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands freeze, his eyes looking up and catching my own. He should brush it off, look away, but instead he holds my gaze and grins, a slow, sexy smile that grabs ahold of my arousal lever and pushes that baby all the way up. Damn. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring confidence … I don’t belong anywhere within miles of this man. My blistered feet and I are way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we are headed. Because I know what will happen when we get through the long walk to my room. All he will have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass will tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything more that he wants.
I reach up and accept his outstretched hand. He smiles down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Shit, my heels. I crouch, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I grip his hand and shuffle forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.
“Feel free to lean on me,” he says, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried …”
